You and Your Heart
by Lostinfic
Summary: I tried to figure out a creative way for Hannah and Hardy to meet (not escort/client) and see what they could bring to each other's life. Hannah needs to lay low for a while and figure out her life while Hardy, although he would never ask, needs someone after his heart surgery. Her father suggests she goes to live with him for some time.
1. Chapter 1

"You could always go live with Hardy for a little while. Remember him?" Hannah's father asks over coffee at her house.

The name brings back vague memories of summer vacations by the sea in Sandbrook and babysitting a girl half her age. Then later, dinners with her parents' friends that lasted well into the night and a kitchen that reeked of beer the next morning. She'd last seen him about two years ago, she was too caught up in her own drama to remember what he was doing in London. That, and prostitutes usually try to avoid law officers.

"What about him?"

"Well, you say you need a break from London and, I know you don't like to talk about it but with Ben out of your life, I worry about you, darling."

"Daaad."

"Okay, alright, alright," he holds up his hands almost in surrender, "anyway, he's divorced now and he moved to some seaside town, in Dorset, your mother says he's renting a beach house there, you could visit. Breathe some fresh air, relax, go to the beach."

"What's the catch?"

"Well, he's just had heart surgery last May and, you know him, he won't ask for help but he's all by himself..."

Now she remembers why he was in London the last time, an appointment with a specialist. She remembers his scraggly hair and sunken eyes, his sullenness. She'd almost given him her business card.

She argues with her father that she isn't a nurse but he keeps saying how he'd be less worried if he knew she was with someone he could trust. In the end, the idea blossoms in her head, arrangements are made. Only when she settles in the train heading to Broadchurch on a Saturday does she remember that she used to be scared of him.

When she walks out of the train, the marine air embraces her. She scans the crowd for a man past his prime. However, it's a man stranding straight and tall that greets her at the station, not a grey hair in sight but in dire need of a haircut. She goes in for a kiss on the cheek and he tries to shake her hand and it ends up in a hybrid hug and nervous, humourless laughter. None of the usual pleasantries are exchanged on the way.

It's a tiny house shaped like the cliff atop of which it sits: one side all tall windows, the other side lower and a roof like a grassy slope. It's a house for people who will spend all their short vacation time outside. People who won't get sick of the kitsch nautical theme. It smells like hotels and sand. Generic, mass-produced, artwork hangs on the wall. For someone who lives in a world of beauty, elegance and fantasy, the decor is somewhat off-putting. He explains that touristic lodging was the only fully equipped accommodation available for rent at the moment. It does have a few redeeming qualities, most notably the spectacular view and all the natural light coming in as well as her bedroom. Indeed, her room seems to have escaped the curse of the owner's bad taste. It's snug and charming with its vintage peonies wallpaper and the wrought-iron bed painted white and the obscenely plush down quilt.

The first week is uncomfortable at best. They keep bumping into each other in the narrow staircase and their living arrangement leaves very little privacy for business calls or talking to Bambi with whom she'd promised to keep in touch. In the end, she posts an announcement on her website, sends a message to her regulars and shuts down her mobile completely.

Alec is a decent host the first two days, showing her around, asking what she likes to eat, but when she asks about his dinner plans on Monday he replies: "We don't have to do that- that whole polite guest-host thing. You're a big girl, you do your thing and I do mine."

She tries to engage in conversation but he either lacks social skills or is not interested in talking to her. Plus, every time she offers to help she gets the impression that she's just insulted him. In fact, she quickly learns that he's very touchy about anything regarding his health or strength. It's like walking on eggshells.

Granted, she's not the easiest of guests. In her defence, her flatmate days are long gone. Sure she's had people staying in her house but that's a whole different thing. So she may forget to wash her dishes or to put on decent clothes or spends too much time in the bathroom. As time passes by without any improvement she seriously considers going back to London. Not that she really wants to. Returning to an empty house is a daunting prospect.

At least she gets to relax and focus on her writing project as well as pondering what she wants to do with her life, on the beach preferably. Plus Broadchurch is a lovely town. Except for the fact that walking down High street in sexy designer clothes makes many heads turn and rumours abound once the citizens find out she's living with DI Hardy.

The whole thing collapses on Friday afternoon. She comes into the living room wearing a short tube dress and a sparkling statement necklace. One glance and Alec's face takes on that unhappy expression that digs dimples in his cheeks.

"You got something to say about my outfit?" Hannah snaps.

"Why?"

"Would it kill you to use more than one word when you speak?"

"Why do you need to dress up like that? It's Broadchurch not New York."

"Because I love these clothes and I look fit in this. What do you care?"

"You live with me and I'm a public figure."

"Public figure," she snorts, "you could've fooled me, you stay locked in here, sulking."

Hardy glares at her then walks over to the kitchen, picking up a stack of mail on his way and putting the breakfast counter between them. His nonchalance while she's so pumped up annoys her to no end.

"What are they saying?" she demands.

He shakes his head, eyes still on the envelopes in his hand.

"What are they saying, Alec?"

"That I pay you."

"They say I'm a whore?"

"Yes."

"What if I am?"

Now he's looking at her, scrutinizing her face, trying to decipher whether she's joking or not.

"That's your business."

"Exactly! Who cares what they think?"

He swallows, eyes sliding away. Then he nods, a tiny movement at first followed by a more decisive one. Hannah unclenches her fists and rubs her collarbone, deflating.

"I'm turning into one of them," he mumbles, derisively.

"That's why I love London, nobody gives a shit. Sometimes I go to the store in my jimjam so this dress is actually an improvement."

The corners of his mouth twitch, the first hint of a genuine smile since her arrival.

"Do you need anything from the store?"

"Toothpaste."

She picks up her Jackie O sunglasses and oversized purse but pauses with her hand on the doorknob.

"Tell you what," Hannah says, flashing a mischievous smile, "let's cause a scandal. I'm taking you out tonight. Laters!"

And she leaves before he can argue.

When she comes back from the store, there's a note on the table saying he's at the gym. It surprises her given he has never mentioned any kind of physical activity since her arrival. Granted, he's not a sharer. When she asks him about it later on, over a plate of _orrechiette_ and shrimps, he admits that he'd given up training despite his doctor's recommendation.

"And, I don't know, this afternoon I felt... optimistic."

He grimaces as if the word has a sour taste.

"Good for you."

She beams and he straightens his shoulders.

"You know what else is good for your heart? Red wine," she refills his glass, "cheers."

"To your stay in Broachurch," he clinks his glass with hers.

Like a thunderstorm after a heavy, humid day, their earlier argument seems to have dissipated the tension between.

The Italian restaurant is pleasant if a little ostentatious. They can't help mocking the (very amateur) rendition of the Sistine chapel ceiling. But the low lights and intimate booths combined with the Shiraz help the conversation flow easily between them. They share anecdotes from past, carefree, days, agreeing that Jackie is annoying and revealing her father's drunken antics. It helps that she has perfected the ability of keeping the conversation light and pleasant. Not that it feels like working. As predicted, some people stare and some even stop by their table more out of curiosity than politeness. He wasn't kidding when he said he was a public figure. She gets the feeling that there's a very specific reason for that notoriety but given his reaction when people recognize him, she doesn't ask. He shrugs it all off. It's like she said: Who cares?

They walk back to the house, his suit jacket over her shoulders and their tipsy giggles disturbing the summer night peace. In the street, they come across Becca Fisher and her new boyfriend who stop them for a chat. Hardy doesn't seem very keen on catching up and ends the conversation rather abruptly.

This night out makes her realize that as distant as he can be with her it's still not as bad as with other people and she warms up to him. She learns how he likes his tea and sits down with him after dinner to watch reruns of _Dad's Army_. She asks after his daughter and his progress at the gym. When her bed breaks, she requests his help even though she could have fixed it herself. It's a professional quirk in a way, trying to find out what would make this man happy, what he needs, what would relieve him. It would be easier if he paid her. She isn't quite there yet, he keeps so much to himself. But his smiles become more genuine, reaching his eyes, and he goes as far as cracking a few jokes. He starts wishing her a goodnight every night and she wakes up to the smell of coffee even though he doesn't drink it. And just like that, they have a routine of their own.

Rainy days are spent laying on the floor, listening to the Beatles discography (in chronological order) and binge-watching _The West Wing._ On sunny days, she drags him to the beach or he drags her to the forest for a hike. They bicker about politics and ice cream flavours and her lingerie hanging on the washing line. Although more often than not they do separate things, someone else's presence in the background is like an appeasing white noise. And they realize how lonely they'd been until now.

And through it all, he never once brings up her job or prostitution. She tells herself that at least she was honest even though it doesn't quite feel like it.

###

In the living room, beside a flat screen tv and a blue striped couch, stands a one book bookcase. It's a worn-out copy of _Slaughterhouse-five,_ its screaming red and yellow cover contrasting with the white pine shelf. Just like Hardy, it doesn't fit in this decor.

One night that she can't sleep, she borrows that one out-of-place book. She is hooked right at the first sentence: "All this happened, more or less". She loves the style and the characters and the underlined sentences and the indecipherable notes in the margins. The next day, she brings it with her to the beach which prompts another fight between Hardy and her.

"It's just a little sand, it's already disintegrated anyway," Hannah argues, flipping through the damaged pages.

"And you made it worse."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, I'll buy you another one," she replies dismissively which only seems to upset him further.

"It won't be the same."

"Aww, are you going soft over a book?" she teases.

He tries to pry the novel out of her hands but she hides it under her t-shirt which bemuses him. He looks at her with all the authority he can summon which only makes her chortle.

"Tell me," she demands, "tell me what's so special about this book."

Hardy turns on his heels with a muttered comment about her childish attitude. She hears him rummage through the fridge and sigh dramatically. When he comes back in the room, with a bottle of water, she's sitting on the sofa, the book in her lap.

"I'm gonna go to the newsagent, you need anything?" he asks.

"Tell me."

With an exasperated look on his face, he sits down next to her and she moves the novel away from him.

"Awrite, I got it when I was 16, not long after my maw died," he begins.

It made his teenage self question everything around him. When he moved to go to college, he had only one suitcase and that book under his arm. The same suitcase and the same book that followed him everywhere he went in the following years before settling in Sandbrook with his wife. Somewhere along the way, he forgot about it until he packed his things to come to Broadchurch. Different suitcase, same book. The story became part of the narrative of his life. The book influenced the way he lived and what happened in his life influenced how he understood the book. Of course, he doesn't say it in so many words. But it's enough for Hannah to easily relate to that experience.

At that moment, she remembers a sentence that was twice underlined in the novel: "They do not love one another because they do not love themselves" and wonders what it means to him. It certainly meant something to her when she read it. Never had a few words been so relevant.

When he's done talking, he tries to take the book from where it's resting on the other side of her legs but she doesn't let him, hiding it under her top once again.

"Stop doing that!"

"I wanna finish reading it. I'll take care of it, I promise."

His hand falls in her lap, squeezing her thigh affectionately with an indulgent smile. She smiles back, feeling something she hasn't in a long time; Warmth in her chest and something like a pull but not exactly attraction. Endearment. She covers her mouth with the tip of her fingers as she contemplates this man she's discovering and growing attached to.

"What?"

"Nothing... So, what other books do you like?"

He talks about Sherlock Holmes and reading Harry Potter with his daughter which leads to films and her favourite on-screen adaptation of an Austen novel.

"You just like that bloke in a wet shirt."

"Oh yes, Colin Firth," she says dreamily.

When they get hungry, they move the conversation to the kitchen, discussing _The Catcher in the Rye_ as they prepare sandwiches with leftover chicken. Unsurprisingly, Hardy has no love lost for Holden Caulfield.

"He's just confused," Hannah reasons, "I'm sure you were like him once."

"He's a wee bastirt, is what he is."

"Exactly, just like you."

She splashes him with her hands wet from washing the lettuce.

"Oi!"

He fills two tall glasses with unsweetened iced tea as she brings their plates over to the table. After a few bites in silence, she clears her throat and nonchalantly announces that she's writing a book.

"That why you spend so much time on your computer?"

"Yeah. You noticed? You never asked. You're not very curious for a detective."

"I respect your privacy," he shrugs, "So, what is it about?"

_The_ question. So far, she hasn't had to explain her novel to anyone beside her new editor so she takes a moment to gather her thoughts. She's surprisingly nervous about revealing this. She goofs around a little bit before telling him, joking that it's about a time-travelling inspector. At long last, she explains that the plot revolves around a young woman, Lea, a psychology student, who is convinced that something was done to her twin sister. Thing is, she has no way of proving it and the police don't believe her. Desperate, she begins her own investigation but it quickly becomes more than she can handle. Hannah leaves out the fact that most of it happens in underground sex clubs and elite orgies or the fact that her main character has a torrid affair with a mysterious club owner. Erotica with a side of plot, well she's working on the plot.

"And then, her sister is murdered and she's the main suspect."

Much to her delight, Hardy asks what happens next, his sandwich long forgotten.

"I don't know, I'm stuck there! And I need to send my editor the first three chapters by the end of the month."

After her last two, relatively autobiographical, novels, she'd decided to give writing fiction a try. She'd participated in three creative writing workshops in London but it proved to be harder to write than she had anticipated. Hopefully, the peaceful (dull) way of life in Broachurch will help her focus on her project.

That night, when they walk up the stairs to their bedrooms and he stops to say goodnight, she kisses his cheek.

The next morning, when she walks out of her room onto the narrow veranda extending over the porch, she finds that Hardy has moved a small desk and a kitchen chair in front of the windows. He's cleared the table of old magazines and unfinished crossword puzzles, replacing them with a stack of lined paper and a handful of pens in a pink mug. He gave her a nice place to write. A place for her in his home.

When she enters the kitchen where he's eating eggs and toasts, he doesn't mention the desk but he peers at her over his mug when he thinks she won't notice. She places her hands on his shoulders and kisses the top of his head.

"Thank you, Alec."

"Don't call me that."

She ruffles his hair playfully. She's not fooled by his grumpy attitude anymore.

Hannah settles with her laptop and a cup of vanilla coffee, clicks on "Lea" and starts typing. Something Hardy said yesterday about the evidence to accuse Lea of her sister's murder had made its way into her subconscious and she'd woken up full of ideas. The sound of the keyboard imitates the raindrops hitting the window pane and she finds that this weather suits her writing mood better than the sun of the past few days. She even opens a window, letting in the salty fresh smell of rain and keeping herself warm with an oversized cardigan wrapped around her.

The character of the police officer who arrests Lea starts taking shape. He's an older man and a widower, Irish and most of all he has very unorthodox interrogation techniques (i.e. keeping her on edge of orgasm until she answers his questions). Hannah squirms in her seat as she writes the sexy scene. She sees it, as clear as day, in her mind's eye the way his fingers would move between her legs, the dirty things he would whisper, his pouty lower lip inches from her ear, his scruffy cheek against hers, his whiskey eyes clouded over with lust. She's not typing anymore. Hannah has one hand down the front her pyjama shorts, the other squeezing her breast through her thin camisole, and Hardy could come up any moment but she's so close. She keeps her eyes on the staircase as her fingers move faster. When she imagines the detective bending her character over his desk, she comes silently.

She leans back on the chair, breathing heavily. It's a poor replacement for the sex she needs but it will tide her over until then. The rain dies down and she hears voices downstairs. After freshening up in the bathroom, she goes to investigate.

"Whoa, you look much better than last time. What's your secret?" says a middle-aged woman with short curly hair standing by the front door, she looks up at Hannah, "Oh, I see."

She gives her that look women give her all the time: fake smile and judgemental once-over. At least she put on a bra before coming into the kitchen.

"Hi, I'm Hannah."

"Ellie, I'm a former colleague of Alec."

They politely shake hands.

"She's the daughter of a friend."

Ellie frowns as if Hardy having friends is unimaginable.

"Are you going to invite her in?" she asks Alec.

"Er, yeah, of course, come in."

"No social skills that one," she says to Ellie in a stage whisper.

"I know! He once showed up at my house for dinner with flowers, wine _and_ a box of chocolate, said he didn't know which one to chose. Called me Miller the whole evening."

Good old female bonding over the inadequacy of males.

Hardy rubs the back of his neck, eyes moving between the two women and finally escapes the situation by making tea. Hannah guides their guest to the living room. They chat about the weather clearing up while Hannah removes her nail polish and other manicure items from the coffee table. Ellie is a very nice woman but something about Alec going over to her place for dinner and bringing flowers doesn't sit right with Hannah.

"So, are you and him... involved romantically or otherwise?" she can't help but ask.

Ellie bursts out laughing just as Alec walks into the room with three teacups and a sugar bowl. He always seems to be able to carry more items than the average person with his lithe hands. He sits on the armrest beside Hannah while Ellie is still laughing and dabbing the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. Once she's regained her composure, Alec asks how her sons are settling in their new town. The conversation revolves around work and people only they know and eventually Hannah goes back upstairs to work.

She doesn't dare revisit the sexy scene she just wrote choosing instead to focus on outlining the next chapter. She soon figures out that a lack of idea is not what's stalling her but rather a lack of knowledge regarding murders and police work. And she just happens to have two cops at her disposition downstairs.

She finds Alec on the porch, sitting on the wooden box that doubles as a bench, reading The Guardian. The humidity in the air from the rain and hot weather makes his hair curl on his forehead and she has to stop herself from running her fingers through his locks.

"Ellie's gone?" she asks unnecessarily.

He smirks when he looks up at her.

"What?"

"Ellie said you like me."

"So?"

"And that you asked about my love life. You know you can ask me anything."

She's not sure what he's implying but she wants to wipe that smug look off his face.

"Are you fucking anyone?"

Alec chokes on his water and she bursts out laughing.

"Er, no... you?"

"Oh I'm fucking a lot of people but I'm not in a relationship."

He peers at her over his glasses.

"I can never tell if you're saying the truth."

"And you call yourself a detective inspector? Speaking of which, I have a few technical questions about police work," she adds flashing her most charming smile.

"Sure."

She sits by his feet, shoulder against his leg, her Macbook balanced on her knees. She inquires about the kind of evidence they gather on a crime scene, how long they can keep someone in jail and the equipment in an interrogation room. He tells her more than she asked for with an enthusiasm she did know him capable of. Therefore, she asks more questions. Every detail he provides feeds her muse and she struggles to keep up with all the ideas that spring in her brain. When her computer battery runs out, she saves her document just in time and places it on the floor beside her. She stretches her neck with a groan and swipes her long hair over her shoulder, the back of her hand brushing against his thigh.

"Thank you, that was really helpful."

"My pleasure."

She rests her head on his knee and closes her eyes, listening to the ebb and flow of the waves in the distance. With the touristic season starting, the neighbourhood hasn't been this quiet since her arrival. She finds that she doesn't miss the noises of London so much anymore.

"Do you miss working?" she asks Hardy even she knows he will go back to work once his doctor allows it.

Unexpectedly, he admits he does and he opens up about feeling useless and purposeless.

"It's like you said, about me being locked up and sulking."

"I'm sorry," she pats his calf, trying to convey her compassion, "It's not that bad, you're going to the gym and that lady at the library was totally chatting you up."

"Aye, I suppose I'm doing better now."

He places his hand on her exposed neck, his thumb lightly stroking her skin and an uncommon feeling of peace washes over her.


	2. Chapter 2

_Previously:_

_"__Do you miss working?" she asks Hardy even though she knows he will go back to work once his doctor allows it._

_Unexpectedly, he admits he does and he opens up about feeling useless and purposeless._

_"__It's like you said, about me being locked up and sulking."_

_"__I'm sorry," she pats his calf, trying to convey her compassion, "It's not that bad, you're going to the gym and that lady at the library was totally chatting you up."_

_"__Aye, I suppose I'm doing better now."_

_He places his hand on her exposed neck, his thumb lightly stroking her skin and an uncommon feeling of peace washes over her._

Whether it's because she's writing erotica or because she hasn't had sex in almost three weeks, Hannah doesn't know, but Hardy seems to get more handsome by the day. Skinny becomes svelte. Scruffy and unkempt becomes tousled and sexy. She starts noticing little things like the way he traces idle circles on the table with the tip of his fingers and his arse.

Longing.

She's not used to that, not when she can get any man she wants.

Unfortunately, jumping the bones of her parents' friend seems like a spectacularly bad idea. Not to mention, a little oedipal. She doesn't want to be _that_ girl with father issues. She chases the thoughts away but every once in a while she catches herself staring. Much like she's doing now. Alec is pacing the kitchen, walking slowly around the kitchen table as he talks on the phone with his ex-wife. And there's just something about the way the muscles of his back shift under his threadbare t-shirt as he runs a hand through his hair. And it just so happens that the bright, late afternoon sunlight, brings out the ginger in his hair and turns his eyes to a beautiful golden brown. Then he rubs the back of his neck and she remembers how it felt yesterday when he touched her own neck. The serenity. The warmth.

"Fuck, I need to get laid," she thinks, "maybe I should go out tonight and find someone."

Shaking her head, she gets back to folding clothes. She finds that manual labour helps jog her creativity when her story is stalling. She gets the strangest bursts of inspiration while curling her hair or baking cookies. For example, as she folded a tank top earlier, she thought of a great plot twist: the inspector's wife is not really dead. Maybe the same thing that happened to Lea's sister, happened to his wife. Plus, it would create tension between the inspector and Lea, maybe it makes her a little jealous and insecure (which – obviously — wouldn't stop them from shagging senseless on the kitchen table). If only she knew where her inspiration comes from, she wouldn't have to do so much cleaning around the house, her manicure is really starting to suffer.

Hardy pulls her out of her thoughts when he flops down on the sofa in front of her.

"They should make getting married as complicated as getting divorced, people would think twice before doing it," he declares, "she says hi, by the way."

Hannah nods and waits for him to explain. She picks up a pair of jeans, stiff from drying outside, then a t-shirt, identical to the one he's wearing.

"Do you own anything besides gray t-shirts?" she asks, folding it and adding it on top of his pile.

He doesn't seem to hear her. He remains in his sagged position, head tossed back, jaw clenched, the phone still in his hand. Except for what her mother told her, she doesn't know much about the reasons behind the divorce. He doesn't talk about it. As far as she knows, it's the first time he's spoken with his ex-wife in the last weeks. He's talked to his daughter a few times.

"She's been seeing this bloody shrink and every time we talk she's had another bloody epiphany about what I did wrong. She's the cheater! But nooo! It's all _my_ fault because I shut her off and didn't communicate…" he says in a snarky voice.

He sighs deeply in a way that puffs up his cheeks. He remains silent but he's doing that shifting thing with jaw he does when he's preoccupied.

"The murder of those little girls… we'd never had a case so horrible. I shut her off but I was only trying to, to…"

"Protect her?" Hannah supplies.

"Yeah!" he says, emphasizing his agreement with a jerk of his hands.

"You thought she would be better off without knowing about your problems, that she didn't need this burden."

Alec nods emphatically.

"You didn't tell her what was really going on and you forced yourself to smile around her even though you felt like crying."

He peeks at her from under his fringe, squinting.

"I get the feeling we're not talking about me anymore."

"I hate it when you're clever."

He smirks and tugs on her arm to make her sit down next to him.

"Who was it?"

"Ben. He was my best friend and on and off boyfriend," she says, toying with the hem of her peach sweetheart top.

She's had a lot of time to think about what went wrong and she can only hope to have learned from her mistakes. Although part of her will always miss him and regret what happened, now is time to move forward.

"I don't really feel like talking about it."

"Me neither."

She picks up the remote and turns on the DVD player, then selects the next episode of _The_ _West Wing_ for them to watch. She folds her legs underneath herself. The dip in the sofa brings her body closer to his. Or maybe she did that all by herself. It's like secondary school all over again, when you'd get a thrill from your knee touching a boy's leg under the cafeteria table. Is he touching me on purpose? Am I standing too close? Is it too obvious that I like him? Except, she's an escort, she knows when a man fancies her. There are little telltale signs of attraction, like how he's leaning closer to her. That's not something he would have done a week ago, he would have stayed firmly and stubbornly on his side. But now she can smell the fragrance of his body wash, fresh and green, like cedar and pine trees. The proximity is like static electricity, it makes her skin tingle and every hair on her body stand on end towards him as if to fill the gap between their bodies.

After the opening credits, he extends his arm behind her back. Another telltale sign. The movement causes her camisole strap to slide down her shoulder, low enough to reveal a bit of lace from the top of her bra. His face strains with the effort to not ogle her cleavage. She doesn't try to cover herself. Instead, she sinks further into him, the cotton of his t-shirt cool against her flushed cheek. It's a shame there are only two episodes left, she would have happily spent the rest of the day in this very position.

Halfway through the episode, her phone vibrates in her pocket, making them both jump as if caught red-handed.

"Hey babe! Happy birthday!" says Bambi in her sweet sing-song voice.

Hannah had turned her mobile back on this morning expressly for this kind of call. She gets off the sofa and goes up to her room as Bambi berates her for not calling.

Hannah lies back on her bed, legs propped up against the wall and answers her friend's questions about daily life in Broadchurch, omitting her novel. Of course, she also talks about Alec, at length.

"Oh girl, you've got it bad."

"Oh no, no, it's not like that, it's just… physical attraction," Hannah mutters, "Anyway, what about you?"

"Weeeell… I'm pregnant!"

"Oh God, erm, I know this clinic and I hear they're very nice –"

"No, Belle, it's a good news. It wasn't planned but we're happy and Byron is sooo sweet."

"And you're sure it's Byron's?"

"Yes."

Her answer comes a little too quickly but she chooses to ignore that and congratulates her friend instead.

They keep chatting, Bambi bringing her up to speed with what's going in London and the prostitution world. She talks about a nasty client she had last week and complains about Stephanie and Charlotte. Hannah realizes how out of touch with the real world she has become. Not only that, but that she doesn't miss any of these people. Yet she used to think that they were the ones she belonged with. The only ones she could get along with. And the more Bambi talks, the more she recoils at the thought of going back to that world. Not prostitution in itself, she loves her job, rather all that comes with it. But there's a voice, like a snake in her mind hissing: "You've got to go back. What else have you got?" She feels shaken, dizzy even. And as much as she likes Bambi, she can't wait to end the conversation. She just wants to go back to her cozy bubble downstairs.

Right after hanging up, she jumps off the bed and opens the window. The strong sea breeze sends the sheer curtains flying and her golden hair dancing. If only all her worries could be swept away, like blowing on a dandelion. She rests her head against the frame, taking in deep breaths. She can't stay hidden in Broadchurch forever but she doesn't have to go back right away. She can be just Hannah for a little while longer. She hears an old couple chatting in the street below, oblivious to her turmoil, and their bickering makes her smile. Yeah, a little while longer. That thought brings her some comfort.

When she comes down the stairs, Alec looks like he's been waiting for her. He's leaning on the kitchen island, making an empty glass swivel between his hands.

"Is that for me?" Hannah asks, biting back a wide grin and tucking her chin in her shoulder.

He pushes a box across the tiled counter top. It's gift-wrapped and there's not a doubt in her mind that some shop clerk is responsible for the pink bow. The thought of Alec tying a ribbon is enough to make her snicker. She tears the striped paper with a childlike eagerness. It's a paperback copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five _and a heavy book on fiction writing. There's a short "Good luck with your project and Happy Birthday" scribbled on the first page. It's the little heart next to his signature that makes her smile so wide.

"Thank you, I love it."

"Not at all," he replies, hands buried deep in his jeans pockets, a study in feigned indifference.

She moves to the other side of the counter. She kisses his scruffy cheek. The kiss turns into a hug. The hug lingers on. He doesn't let go and neither does she and now her nose is buried in the crook of his neck, her body enfolded in his arms, firm chest pressed against hers and his hands splayed on her back. He's so solid, she feels like she could hold on to him through a storm and come out unscathed. Her own shelter.

When his hands move to her waist, she knows it's time to let go. They part but remain well into each other's personal space.

"Sorry, I think I needed that," she says, eyes sliding away, hand gliding over her collarbone.

"Not a good phone call, then?"

She shrugs.

"It's alright."

He studies her face, brows knit together. He gently swipes a strand of hair off her forehead, tucking it behind her ear and he's got to stop doing tender things like that because her heart can't take much more.

"I'm fine."

He blinks slowly and nods. They move on to another subject when he suggests they go out somewhere nice to celebrate her birthday. She agrees immediately, she just needs to shower and change first. She's halfway up the stairs when she hears Alec call her name. She looks back down. He's leaning against the banister, clutching his hands.

"S'like you said before about burdening people with your problems…you can, you know, burden me."

He grimaces at his own poor choice of words and seems relieved when she smiles.

"Same here."

To be continued…


	3. Chapter 3

_Previously:_

_Alec's ex called him and Bambi called Hannah for her birthday which made her realize how little she wants to go back to London._

_He studies her face, brows knit together. He gently swipes a strand of hair off her forehead, tucking it behind her ear and he's got to stop doing tender things like that because her heart can't take much more._

_"__I'm fine."_

_He blinks slowly and nods. They move on to another subject when he suggests they go out somewhere nice to celebrate her birthday. She agrees immediately, she just needs to shower and change first. She's halfway up the stairs when she hears Alec call her name. She looks back down. He's leaning against the banister, clutching his hands._

_"__S'like you said before about burdening people with your problems…you can, you know, burden me."_

_He grimaces at his own poor choice of words and seems relieved when she smiles._

_"__Same here."_

* * *

"Come on Baxter! I'm hungry," Alec shouts from the other side of her bedroom door.

Hannah walks out.

"Nude or taupe?"

She holds up two pairs of high-heels in front of his eyes. He pulls a face, his expression somewhere between confusion and annoyance.

"Urgh, you're useless."

"I'll remember that next time you want to ask me _another_ question about police work."

She notices he's wearing that moss green oxford they saw in a shop window last week. The one she said he would look good in. She was right.

She follows him down the stairs and out the door, stepping into the sunny evening. They choose to go to their favourite local pub, nothing fancy. Her blue ombre dress might be a bit posh but it's her birthday. The King's Arm is within walking distance of the house, just on the edge of the town center. They cut through a residential neighbourhood, passing by rows of slightly different townhouses and roller skating teens. The mouth-watering smell of BBQ hangs in the air. It stirs up nostalgic feelings and souvenirs of family vacations in Sandbrook. It only serves to remind her of the generation gap between them.

"I remembered something about you today from when you'd visit with your family," he says, "your father wanted to go fishing and I don't like being on the water but I didn't want to tell him. We were supposed to stay close to the shore but we sort of drifted and I wasn't feeling too well. You noticed and you moved to sit next to me and you held my hand."

He looks at her with something like affection on his features, as if it had been a significant moment. She smiles back but can't help adding:

"Really? I was scared of you."

Hardy cracks up.

"I think that started after I caught you kissing the boy next door."

"Oh right."

The back of her hand brushes against his and he hooks his little finger with hers. The contact is so unexpected, so pleasant, it bubbles up inside of her and she can't stay serious. She swings their hands exaggeratedly between them and Alec pretends it annoys him.

He lets her hand drop when a couple waves at him from the other side of the street. This time, Alec stops to chat. They talk about the new mayor and their summer vacation plans. When he asks about the woman's pregnancy, she caresses her bulging belly and announces that it's a girl with something like relief in her voice. The whole time, Hannah tries to figure out where she knows them from.

"Nige says he saw you at the gym. You do look better than you did," the woman remarks.

"And with a pretty lass on your arm," the man adds, giving Hannah the once over.

Alec tugs on his earlobe and stammers an introduction. Mark and Beth. The Latimers. She'd seen them on the news. They shake hands and she wonders if they can tell how ill at ease she has suddenly become. Hopefully it will pass because they're invited to next week's Sunday lunch. As they walk away, Hannah takes Alec's arm and whispers in his ear: "don't worry, I'll help you pick out the wine _and_ the flowers _and_ the chocolates."

"Shut it," he replies, trying and failing to pull his usual grumpy face.

Shortly after, they reach the bar. It's your traditional English pub with dark wood tables and air as thick as the grease in the frying pans, except maybe for the decidedly avant-garde art adorning the walls.

"So, how old are you now?" Alec asks as he pulls out her chair.

"29... You?"

"40"

"Really? I thought you were older what with you being a friend of my parents' and all that."

"Thanks," he replies sarcastically.

He explains that he was a friend of father's youngest brother at first. It occurs to her that they have the same age difference than her parents do. She peruses the sticky menu but she can't quite stay focused. Her attention keeps drifting to Alec. She studies the fine lines at the corner of his eyes, an anachronism on his freckled face. There's something about the realization that he's not, in fact, that much older than her that changes her perception of their relationship. This, whatever it is, seems more… normal - even though she hates that word. He smiles at her for no particular reason and he looks even younger.

When Alec orders a salad and sparkling water the waiter keeps his eyes on him as if asking "And for you, sir?"

"She'll have the... burger?"

Hannah nods and adds:

"And a pint of ale."

While they wait for their food, she tells him about Bambi's call, her pregnancy and her marriage to an aristocrat. She mentions that her friend is a prostitute, gauging Alec's reaction carefully. He frowns, lips tight but his eyes are far away. She's not even sure he heard her. When the waiter brings their plates, he snaps out of it briefly, just long enough to turn away from her and swallow a handful of pills which never fails to make him grimace. Whereas their silences have been of the companionable kind lately, this one is slightly distressing. He stares at his plate, eating in a mechanical way. She's starting to think that he didn't really want to go out with her tonight.

Hannah eats her sloppy burger and scans the pub crowd for anything more interesting than Alec's contemplation of lettuce. There's a bloke at the bar staring at her. He looks smart: crisp white shirt, fashionably messy hair, young. She smiles, just a little but it slips into something flirty. It's second nature.

Alec clears his throat and she looks back at him immediately.

"There's something I want to talk to you about," he says in a grave voice that makes her stomach drop.

"What is it?"

A movement in her peripheral vision makes her focus veer unintentionally. Smart guy is getting up. Alec turns around to look at what caught her eye. Both men nod at each other. Smart guy takes it as an invitation to come over.

"DI Hardy."

"Oliver," he replies coldly.

"It's just Olly actually."

"What kind of name is that?"

"Right," he turns to her with a much warmer smile, "and you must be Hannah, auntie Ellie told me about you."

They shake hands and he pulls up a chair next to her. He starts bombarding her with questions about her stay in Broadchurch and her life in London. When he learns it's her birthday, he buys her a drink.

"Something girly and pink and sweet," he tells the waiter.

She gets another pint with a little umbrella in it which she puts in her wavy hair.

The journalist is likable if a little overbearing with all his questions but Hardy's face is getting bleaker by the minute. He has slopped down on his seat and crossed his arms on his chest.

"You're going to write an article about her too?" he snaps after Olly has asked Hannah a very personal question.

There's something like an accusation in his voice.

"Maybe I should, it certainly helped your reputation."

"Did it?"

"People like you now, don't they?"

"They pity me."

She recognizes the uptight Alec of her first days in Broadchurch and she has no desire for a repeat performance. As nicely as she can, she lets Olly know that it's time for him to go. They exchange contact information and make vague plans to hit the clubs together.

As soon as the journalist is out of earshot, she turns to Alec to ask him what he wanted to talk about. Unfortunately, he has left to pay the bill at the bar. He'd looked so serious and preoccupied. She apprehends the conversation, concerned that she might have overextended her welcome and that he's going to ask her to leave. So when he comes back to the table, she doesn't ask. She loops her arm through his and puts on her most charming smile.

"The longest day of the year," she comments, looking up at the sky when they exit the pub.

Despite the moon, it's all wild blue yonder with just a little orange in the corners. They go back home, taking the narrow path along the beach rather than the street. She wobbles on her high-heels, not the best footwear for the sandy and uneven trail. Hardy steadies her with his hands at her waist.

"You're pissed!"

"I'm not! It's those bloody shoes," she replies, taking them off.

"I told you to put on the naked ones," he jokes.

"Not naked, nude, it means flesh coloured."

His only answer is an exaggerated eye roll. The uneasiness that had been building between them fades away, replaced by lighthearted chuckles. They keep on walking, his hand on her lower back. They're in no hurry. The air is warm, the night is young, their eyes are bright. And she hopes she read too much into his earlier sullen mood.

"I'd like to read your novel," he says after she mentions receiving an e-mail from her editor.

His request leaves her open-mouthed. She has yet to tell him about the real nature of her novel.

"It's just a draft…" she counters weakly, biting her bottom lip.

"So?"

In reality, she would love to get some feedback from Hardy. It's the least she can do considering how much he's helped her.

"You're really interested?"

He nods decisively. He wouldn't ask if he didn't mean it. Head tilted, she rubs her chin, considering the possibilities. Finally, she agrees, thinking she'll show him a part without sexual content. It's not like he's going to read a whole chapter.

Once they've reached the house and wiped the sand off their feet, Hannah heads upstairs. She changes into something more casual - a wide neck t-shirt and gingham shorts - then tries to find a suitable passage for Alec to read. He carries a chair from the kitchen and sits down right next to her, his body heat adding to the balmy night air.

"Shouldn't I start reading at the beginning?"

_Lea's routine consisted mainly of reading research papers on women in the workplace which would inevitably lead to fantasies about being fucked on a conference table by two CEOs and masturbating between coffee breaks. Her thesis was progressing slowly._

"I don't think so..." she scrolls down faster, "Here, Lea is arrested."

Her stomach twists in a knot as he starts reading. Biting her thumbnail, she monitors his reactions.

"Stop staring at me," he says without turning his head.

At first, he comments the story, things she got right or wrong, things he finds funny. However, as the sexual tension between the two characters builds, he becomes quieter. He reads on and, knowing what happens next in the story, soon she'll have to stop him. But then, Alec's hand moves from the back of her chair to her shoulder. It rests lightly on the exposed skin where her shirt has slid off. She glances out of the corner of her eyes, without turning her head. No sudden movements. As far as she can tell, he's focused on the computer screen, seemingly unaware that he's now touching her. If he reads any further, he'll find the inspector slipping a hand under Lea's skirt, described in explicit details. Now would be a good time to stop him. She doesn't. Because his touch, however involuntary, is anything but chaste. It has turned into something more like a grip. The rough pads of his fingers weigh down on her flesh as if holding her in place. It creates a warm pressure in her lower abdomen, dancing like a flame, licking at her inner walls. She wants him to find out. Get a rise out of him, in more ways than one. She lets him read on.

His hand travels slowly to her neck. The last time he'd touched her there, it had made her feel peaceful. This touch is different. His slender fingers curl around the nape of her neck. They press into her skin with a hint of nails. His thumb starts tracing tight circles next to her jugular. Arousal shots through her from his hand and down her spine. It makes her pulse thump between her legs. She inclines her head, exposing more of her neck. Hardy finally looks at her, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. She's never seen his eyes like this before, tenebrous, intently holding her gaze. She moves towards him and offers her mouth.

Alec stands up rapidly almost knocking off the chair.

"Well done, Baxter."

He disappears in his room. Hannah stares at his closed door with bewilderment. Something is stopping him from acting on his attraction. He has doubts, maybe even qualms. Maybe he did believe her when she said she was a whore. Maybe it has to do with what he wants to talk to her about.

She turns back to her computer and immerses herself in the fictional world she has created. The one where Lea's relationship with the inspector has moved from the occasional shag in unusual places to making love in bed, on a Sunday morning. A world in which he doesn't reject her.

She writes on for over an hour until she has to describe a fight scene involving a policeman but lacks the technical information necessary to make it realistic. She tries to move on to another part of the story but it nags her and hinders her ability to write.

She knows it's foolish but she does it anyway. Hardy's bedroom smells of him, tangy and masculine, the kind of odour that triggers the most primitive part of her brain. Thanks to the opened window and cloudless sky, she can make out his sleeping form in the dimness.

"Alec?"

She nudges his shoulder, lightly at first, then more insistently. He blinks slowly and takes in a deep breath as he stirs from sleep.

"What do you call that thing, it's like a gun but it doesn't shoot bullets, just sort of zap," she asks in a hushed voice.

"Google it," he mumbles, rolling over on his left side, away from her.

"Aleeec?"

"Sod off," he mutters into the pillow without any real anger.

"Can I sleep with you?"

The words leave her mouth before she's even aware of her need. He remains silent, too silent, like he's holding his breath. The tautness of his body tells her he's alert rather than asleep. Still, he doesn't reply. She regrets asking. He didn't want to kiss her, he won't want her in his bed. She turns on her heels but at the same moment he scoots over, making room for her. Without a word, she slips under the soft cotton sheet, curling into the residual body heat. With great effort, she tries to keep her breathing light and quiet. She stares at the stretch of his skin illuminated by the moonlight, willing him to turn around and talk to her. Shortly after, he turns to lie on his back. He's closer. She wants to lay her head on his chest and curl up against him. But she doesn't.

She brings her knees further up and Alec's hand moves to cover her feet. His touch soothes her.


	4. Chapter 4

_Previously:_

_"__Can I sleep with you?"_

_The words leave her mouth before she's even aware of her need. He remains silent, too silent, like he's holding his breath. The tautness of his body tells her he's alert rather than asleep. Still, he doesn't reply. She regrets asking. He didn't want to kiss her, he won't want her in his bed. She turns on her heels but at the same moment he scoots over, making room for her. Without a word, she slips under the soft cotton sheet, curling into the residual body heat. [...]_

_She brings her knees further up and Alec's hand moves to cover her feet. His touch soothes her_

She tries to hold on to a string of memory, to stop it from floating away. The hazy sensation of something itchy on her cheek and neck, of damp skin on hers, of safety, slips from her fingers as she wakes up. She feels sluggish, it's as if the room hasn't cool down over the night. She blinks slowly and through her eyelashes, she sees Hardy's profile, his beard ginger in the early morning light. He's lying on his side, hands tucked under his arms, eyes opened. He's far away from her. Well, as far as he can be considering that she's taken over more than her fair share of the bed. Yet the distance between their bodies feels like it's a mile long, a valley in the mattress, a river of blue cotton separating them. She reaches out but her arm his heavy with sleep. Against her will, her eyelids close. Alec touches the tip of her fingers, bridging the gap, and she drifts back to sleep.

Some time later, a persistent seagull rouses her. She groans and squirms feebly, entangling herself in the bed sheets. She hears Alec's throaty chuckle.

"Stop laughing at me," she mumbles in the pillow, more awake this time around.

"Budge up, I need to take a leak."

With the bed pushed against the wall, he can't get out without climbing over her. She curls herself in a way she imagines makes more room for him to pass. The mattress rocks under her and she feels him of each side of her body. She grabs the nearest limb, weakly holding on to it but it slips out of her grasp. She hugs his pillow instead and dozes off once again.

A clunk on the bedside table, the sharp smell of dark-roast coffee and a brush of fingers through her hair, make her resurface. She picks up the sound of footsteps around the room, of drawers and zippers. He might have said something about going to the gym. She kicks off the sheets and starts stretching her arms above her head, her back arching off the bed, her t-shirt riding up her torso. The room is silent. She checks if Alec is still there. He's gaping, there's no other way to put it. She runs her hand over her exposed stomach and then a thumb under the waistband of her shorts. When their eyes meet, he walks to the bed. He puts his hand on her wrist.

"Don't do that."

He kisses her, more scruff than lips, just on the corner of her mouth, too quickly for her to reciprocate.

"You're sending mixed signals," she says.

"We'll talk later."

She doesn't dwell on the implications of his serious tone, it's too early for that. She wets her lips and tastes his breath.

She sits up, back against the wooden headboard. It's only 8 am, she enjoys each sip of her coffee and the day ahead of her. She finds herself reluctant to leave his bed. Already, she's examining strategies to sleep here again tonight. However, Hardy's inconsistent behaviour, wavering between sweet gestures and keeping his distance, leaves her uncertain.

Only once her mug is empty and her bladder full does she leave his bed. She casts one last lingering look at his room and closes the door. She cuts her morning routine short, skipping her Pilates exercises in favour of spending some quality time with her favourite grown-up toy. "Best way to start the day," she thinks as she sinks back into her pillow.

When Hardy comes back, she's fresh out of the shower, eating toasts with apricot jam in front of her computer. He reaches the top of the staircase and leans on the banister, breathing heavily, his face red.

"All right?"

"I ran..." he pants.

He drinks from her glass of juice then stretches his arms above his head, exposing the dark stains under his armpits.

"Eeww, gross," she jokes.

He looks at her with a playful glint in his eyes. Before she has time to understand what he's doing, he's hugging her and rubbing his sweaty forehead against hers.

"Get off me, you stink."

She pushes his chest weakly, laughing too hard to defend herself properly.

"There, you stink too, now."

"Urg, you're the worst."

He winks and enters the bathroom. She turns back to her computer with an eye roll and a last chuckle.

Her characters are investigating at a sex club which is based on one she has visited before. Her inspector is faced with the peculiar conundrum of threatening someone who actually enjoys pain. She considers the situation and decides that it's all in the way he will look at the suspect. The intensity in his eyes might be enough to scare him into divulging confidential information. This idea brings to mind how Hardy looked at her yesterday. How dark his eyes had been, almost predatory. It makes her wish she was one of his suspects.

And that's when she realizes how much of her inspector is based on Alec.

"Oh fuuuck."

She slaps a hand over her forehead. What if he noticed last night? She reads back what she's written in the last few days. It's so obvious, it's embarrassing. With a grunt, she buries her face in her hands.

"Hannah!"

She jumps at the sound of Alec's angry voice. She's reacting as if she'd been doing something wrong, as if he'd read her mind. He's standing in the bathroom doorway, towel around his hips. His face has lost any trace of his earlier playfulness.

"Your hair. In the drain. Again."

She collects herself, relieved it 's something so unimportant. The man used to live with two women, it's nothing he's never seen. Well, there is a lot of hair. And it is a little repulsive. She picks up the sudsy web of hair and unidentified grime, her upper lip rising in disgust.

When she comes out of the bathroom, Hardy is standing behind the desk, entirely focused on her computer screen, reading. She remains silent, undecided. She is both embarrassed by what her story reveals and curious to see Alec's reaction. She observes him, the sparse hair on his chest, the dimples in the small of his back, the way his fingers curl around his bicep. She remembers the way they curled around her neck yesterday, how it had made her feel. Heat blossoms in her once again. She makes a tiny, high-pitched noise in the back of her throat and he turns around. He smirks but then frowns and runs a hand through his hair and over his mouth.

"You know how they say you should write about what you know..."

Her heart thumps in her chest as she wonders what his words imply, what he knows.

"This would be a prime example of it," she replies.

Another half-truth.

"I see... I need to go to London on Thursday."

* * *

Hardy eyes her suitcases.

"You packed everything?"

"Yep."

She keeps her answer short or else she might say something snarky. She can't blame him, it's his house. You can only live so long with a guest. Especially if said guest is a little too forthcoming and displaying unrequited lust. At least, that's what the rational part of her says. The irrational part, well, it had hoped therefore it hurts.

It wasn't much of a discussion. He said he had an appointment with his cardiologist and asked if she wanted to go back to London at the same time. She didn't need more to know that she wasn't welcomed in his home anymore.

She had taken things too far or came on to him too strongly. Or maybe he's just an emotionally unavailable git. He didn't offer any explanation. She didn't ask.

She spends most of the two-hour train ride listening to the messages on her phone. He works on a crossword puzzle and she offers no help even when he asks, too busy taking cryptic notes in her little black book. Better get back in the ring as soon as possible. She has this stud of a client, an American businessman, who will be in town. He's exactly what she needs right now: young and rich and he looks like a movie star. He'll fuck Hardy right out of her system.

The noises of London – honking, the metallic grinding of the tube and people shouting in several languages – make her smile. Her first day back home consists mainly of enjoying the many luxuries her house provides. She soaks in her jet tub and dances around naked to Madonna. She orders chicken tikka masala from her favourite restaurant and opens a bottle of white wine which she drinks by herself while Bambi talks. That night, they go out dancing and she comes back home in an advanced state of inebriation.

When she wakes up, her head is throbbing and she drooled on her pillow, there's a phone number written in her palm. And yet, her first thought is for Hardy. His doctor's appointment is this morning and it's an important one for his future as a DI. She worries and she has half a mind to call him but she refuses to take the first step. She's bound to see him again, sooner or later.

She drags herself out of bed to swallow an Advil with a glass of water. It's nothing a little retail therapy can't cure. A shower and her favourite day dress and she's out the door, heading for Bond street in Mayfair. She runs her hand along the sumptuous fabrics and splurges on lingerie. For lunch, she stops at Tsujiki Sushi and spends an hour with a charming Austrian art collector. In the afternoon, he follows her around the jewelers, holding his black umbrella over their heads. She gets back home with a dozen bags and a new name on her list of clients.

After a much-needed nap, she starts getting ready for her night with the American client. It's more than "shit, shower and shave" as Stephanie used to put it, especially considering how low maintenance she'd been in Broadchurch. It's more like: exfoliate, wash, wax, pluck, moisturize, dry, curl, make-up, dress, lubricate, nail polish, pack a bag and call a cab.

On her way out, she finds Hardy sitting in her driveway, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. She gasps at the sight of him.

"What are you doing here?"

His head snaps up and he frowns as he takes in her appearance.

"Didn't your father call?"

She shakes her head.

"How long have you been here?" she asks, noticing the empty water bottle at his feet.

"They're babysitting for Jackie... I can't stay there tonight."

His words are slurred as if enunciating them requires great efforts. He gets up with a grunt and starts walking towards the street, dragging his feet.

"Wait!"

"Naw, it's fine I won't bother you."

He waves dismissively without looking at her.

"You're not bothering me."

He snorts.

"You could hardly wait to get rid of me yesterday."

"What?"

He's reached the street and he's looking from side to side, for a cab presumably. She calls his name and pulls on his sleeve but he doesn't acknowledge her.

"You're such a hypocrite! You can't throw me out and then act like I'm –"

"Throw you out?"

The conversation turns into an argument over the exact words he used rather than the message he wanted to convey. They shout and speak over one another until they're all out of breath and angrier then they were just five minutes ago. A black cab turns at the end of the street and he raises his arm to stop it.

"That's my taxi," Hannah says, reaching for the car door at it comes to a stop, "The Waldorf Hilton, please."

She gets in but can't help looking back at Hardy. He looks defeated, drained.

"Wait," she rolls down the window and hands Alec her keys, "guest bedroom is on the second floor."

She tosses her head back and takes deep breaths, trying to reign in her emotions. She can't do this right now. There's whoring to be done. She takes a pocket mirror out of her purse. All that black eye shadow, fake eyelashes, blood red lips, she barely recognizes her reflection. But Belle smiles at her confidently.

As the cab approaches the hotel, she receives a text message. It's from Alec.

"I didn't want you to leave. I wanted you to come to the doctor with me."


	5. Chapter 5

_Previously:_

_"__That's my taxi," Hannah says, reaching for the car door at it comes to a stop, "The Waldorf Hilton, please."_

_She gets in but can't help looking back at Hardy. He looks defeated, drained._

_"__Wait," she rolls down the window and hands Alec her keys, "guest bedroom is on the second floor."_

_She tosses her head back and takes deep breaths, trying to reign in her emotions. She can't do this right now. There's whoring to be done. She takes a pocket mirror out of her purse. All that black eye shadow, fake eyelashes, blood red lips, she barely recognizes her reflection. But Belle smiles at her confidently._

_As the cab approaches the hotel, she receives a text message. It's from Alec._

_"__I didn't want you to leave. I wanted you to come to the doctor with me."_

* * *

She feels the blood drain from her face as understanding dawns on her. That morning, back at the train station, he'd told her the time and place of his appointment. She hadn't made sense of it back then. With everything from Alec rebuffing her kiss and laying far away from her in bed to her increasing anxiety over whether or not he knows, she'd completely missed his point. Her mind had construed his words into what she dreaded the most, disregarding every little thing that spoke of his affection. They say people only hear what they want to hear. It's true she couldn't wait to get rid of him but not for the reasons he imagined.

"Shit!" she hits the seat with her fist, prompting a worried look from the driver.

The taxi decelerates in front of the luxurious hotel and the cabbie tells her the price for the ride. She doesn't react. She's staring at her mobile, reading Alec's text over and over again. He needed her and she wasn't there for him.

"All right, luv?"

"Erm, no... turn around please."

He hesitates until she gets a stack of pound notes out of her wallet.

"Turn. Around."

There's not a light on in the house, everything is as she left it, no suitcase or shoes by the door. Only the swish of her sequined dress and the clatter of her stilettos disturb the silence. She dumps her purse on the table and walks up the stairs, calling Alec's name. With butterflies in her stomach, she waits for an answer but she doesn't get any. Finally, she finds him in the dim guest bedroom. He's sitting on the grey duvet, engrossed in the wood grain of the floor. Legs crossed at the ankles, she stands in the doorway and bites her nails. She should have thought of something to say on the drive back. He breaks the silence first with a hoarse voice she doesn't recognize.

"I kept thinking of that day, on the boat," he says, rubbing a thumb in his palm.

She'd held his hand.

The thought of him, alone in a cold and sterile hospital room, breaks her heart.

"I'm so sorry...I was so sure you'd had enough of me."

She pleads with her eyes, trying to convey her regret. He studies her features, running a hand through his hair while he considers what she said. She steps closer and hesitantly takes his hand between hers. He lets her.

"It's awrite, I suppose," he says, "I know what I'm like."

His fingers are cold despite the summer heat and she rubs them softly.

"So, we're good, yeah?" she asks and she hates the quiver in her voice.

He nods but it's not enough to reassure her.

She guides him out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. She kicks off her high-heels and fills the stainless steel kettle. The situation requires a good cuppa. While she takes out her favourite mugs and fancy tea tins, he sits on a stool at the counter and observes the chic interior.

"It's very white," he comments, clearly disapproving of her decorating choices.

She shrugs and pours water over the orange blossoms and white tea leaves, making them swirl in the glass teapot.

"Why d'you need to make it so posh for?"

"Have you finished? My house, my way."

He utters a non-committal grunt. While the tea steeps, she joins him on the other side of the counter. Alec retreats in his thoughts, bad ones by the looks of it. She doesn't know what to make of his sullenness. Anger would be better than the dejected look on his face. She wants to ask how it went at the doctor's but you can't force these things, not with Hardy. So she doesn't say a word and pours the tea. She gets lost in the steam rising from her cup and disappearing in the soft light of the pendant lamp.

After a few sips, Alec finally talks. He recounts what happened at the hospital, keeping his eyes on the cloudy liquid in his mug. He received test results from his latest checkup. His health hasn't improved as much as they'd expected. It's going to take longer than he'd been told before he can even think of taking the physical endurance test necessary to get back to work. Even then, he'll probably be relegated to a desk job – if he's lucky. His voice croaks on the last words, he clenches his teeth and tightens his grip on the cup.

She can't think of anything to say except for platitudes meant to reassure herself more than him. Instead, she rubs his hunched back, her hand warm from holding her tea.

"Did you tell him you'd started working out again?"

"Aye, he said it would help."

"I really wish I'd been there for you."

He finally looks at her, trying to smile but only one corner of his mouth rises.

"It wasn't just for me that I wanted you there."

He rolls the sleeves of his gray shirt, avoiding her inquisitive gaze.

"Why, then?" she insists.

"I thought you had to know what you were getting into – how ill I am – before..."

"Before?"

"You know," he moves his hand back and forth between them.

"Oh! That why you didn't kiss me the other night?"

He lets out a short laugh.

"Still can't believe I managed to resist that. You were practically throwing yourself at me."

She nudges his ribs playfully and he smiles, it almost reaches his eyes this time.

"So, you wanted to? Kiss me, I mean."

And there's really nothing quite as adorable as the grumpy DI Hardy blushing. He tugs on his ear and gives her a sidelong glance and there's that pull in her chest she's learned to associate with him, with her feelings for him. Now would be an ideal time to kiss him except her mobile rings.

She digs in her purse and one look at the screen informs her that it's her client - the one she left hanging at the hotel. She leaves the room to take the call. Trying to make it as short as possible, she uses the good old "personal reasons" excuse. She might lose a client but she won't lose someone she cares about. Not again. After hanging up, she stops by the bathroom and washes her face, scrubbing off the layer of make-up. While she's at it, she decides to change into more casual clothes. She trades the dress for the extra-long violet tee hanging behind the door. She looks at the sequined garment in a puddle on the floor and thinks it's like shedding a skin. Or an armor.

When she comes back into the room, she finds Alec pouring over her handbag, carelessly left opened on the kitchen table.

"You should also know that I know you're a prostitute. High class escort by the looks of it," he says, taking her completely by surprise.

She falters, her mouth opening and closing several times as she processes his words. Her heart pounds like a drum.

"How d'you know?" she asks, holding her breath.

"DI," he points a thumb at his chest.

"For how long?"

Much to her surprise, he reveals that he's had his doubts since the last time they saw each other, over two years ago. A few things had tipped him off. In his line of work, he'd met both sex workers and legal secretaries - only one of those can afford the kind of clothes and house she has. That and some of the things she'd said in the past weeks. Hannah collapses in the nearest armchair. She covers her mouth with her hand as dozens of questions jostle around in her brain.

"Why d'you let me come to your house, then?"

He shrugs casually, hands in his pockets, barely frowning.

"I owed your father a favour, I didn't care as long as you weren't doing it in Broadchurch."

She mulls over this new information, finding that his reason leaves her a little disappointed.

After a moment of heavy silence, he sits down on the white leather ottoman in front of her. He rests forward on his elbows, the back of his fingers brushing against her bare knees.

"Listen, Han... There's always more to people."

Something in the way the hard line of his lips softens, in the way he looks straight in her eyes, feels sincere. It makes her lean forward to pay closer attention to what he has to say.

"We see a different side of people, you and I, a side they don't show the rest of the world. But we know they're not just criminals or perverts... and I'm not just a DI and you're not just an escort."

"A minute ago you were devastated 'cause you might not get back to work," she points out.

It wasn't the right thing to say. At least, it didn't come out too snarky. He doesn't hold it against her. In a way, his older age is what she likes the most about him: he's mature and wise and he can handle her. He merely quirks an eyebrow and continues with his train of thought:

"My job... it's never been _just_ a job, you know?"

She nods emphatically, he might as well have been talking about her.

"And with Danny's murder, I..."

He sighs deeply, averting his eyes once more. She rests a hand on his forearm and he goes on to say:

"Sometimes it's... self-destruction. So we have to remember it's not all we are."

Her eyes well up. A jumble of pleasant and unpleasant emotions swirls through her: the joy of having someone who understands and the bleak reality of her situation. She loves her work, she's good at it, brilliant even, but she fucked up. She let Harry mess with her head and play on her insecurities. She alienated people.

Alec cups her face, slender fingers cradling her jaw like fine porcelain, and he wipes a stray tear away with his thumb. She leans into his touch and it becomes more like her cheek caressing his palm than the other way around.

"Sometimes I think that maybe it's not that I like my job so much but that it's become an excuse to keep people away," her throat cracks and hurts, her face contorting as she tries to keep the corners of her mouth upwards. "But what else can I do? What will _you_ do?"

"Don't worry, I'm sure there's plenty you can do," he replies dully.

"… Right."

She reclines in her seat. A "now what?" hangs in the air.

"I think I'll become one of those hippie farmers," Alec says, "I'll raise wild chickens and grow organic Brussels sprouts or something,"

Hannah laughs through her tears, wiping them away with the back of her hand.

"And I'll become a bee keeper and sell overpriced honey to vegans," she adds.

"_And_ you'll be a successful writer."

"Yes, well, actually, I already am."

He smiles and she gets the sudden urge to hug him. Following her impulse, she gets up and wraps her arms around his neck. He sees himself as old and weak but to her he's a solid, comforting presence. Even in London he smells of their beach house, pine and sand. With her exacerbated sensitivity, the contact triggers another wave of emotions, these ones all positive. He hugs her back, nose buried in her golden curls. After a while, she lets go to sit sideways on his thigh. She keeps one arm around his shoulders, playing with the short hair at the base of his head.

"I mean it you know," he says, "you're young and healthy and smart. You can do anything you want."

He really believes it, believes in her. And there's that overwhelming feeling in her chest, a tightness. Fear. That she doesn't deserve it - him. She can barely breathe and she needs to look away from his eyes. But he holds her chin and her gaze, makes her believe him.

"You. Can do anything."

Her fear decreases a notch and her chest feels tight for a whole other reason, her heart swelling, pushing at her ribs, unable to contain all this love and begging for more. His eyes are already kissing her. His thumb whispers over her lips, slightly pulling on the bottom one just as her tongue darts out. She feels the tip of his nose first, like a tentative nudge, her eyes close and she tastes his gasp. Dry lips press against hers, salty with her tears. She's been kissed many times before – never like that. It appeases and excites her all at once. His hand delves in her hair as it grows hungrier and she molds her body to his, depriving herself of oxygen for the sake of desire. When they part, she keeps her eyes closed for a few seconds, resting her forehead on his, savoring the warmth spreading from her lips to her heart.

"Are you coming back to Broadchurch with me?" he whispers.

"Yes"

"Just to be clear, by that I mean that I want you to come back with me and live with me in the beach house for as long as you need –but not in the guest bedroom."

"Oh well, in that case –"

He stifles her giggles with his mouth and she feels him smile as he kisses her again. And again. And again.

* * *

Author's note: This is as far as I had planned to take that story. I feel that if I were to continue, there would need to be an actual plot and I have too much work coming up to take that on. I might write a sequel, there is still so much to explore with these characters, just not right right now (unless one of you wants to grade all of my students' papers and finish my master's degree). Thank you sooo much for the nice reviews and the favorites :D


	6. Bonus

Author's note: I changed my mind many times about writing this. I didn't want to write smut for the sake of smut and I finally came up with something that satisfies me. Let me know what you think and thanks for reading :)

* * *

Hannah's wide awake now. Worn out by the day's emotional roller-coaster, they'd gone to bed straight away after their conversation and subsequent kisses. Hardy's right beside her. There had been no questions on whether to sleep in the same bed. They'd fallen asleep holding each other but had separated during the night — most likely because of the oppressive summer heat.

Feeling high-strung, her limbs buzzing, Hannah gets off the bed. She tiptoes to the other end of the room and opens the window wide. The night air is not as refreshing as she'd hoped. There's no breeze, no noise, no one. The world has stopped just when she's set to conquer it. "We have to remember it's not all we are." Alec's words had been like an epiphany. She wants to act on it now, turn her life around immediately. Except, it's 3 am. She leans on the slightly cooler windowsill, eyes on the sliver of moon in the starless sky. The silence and stillness of the night unnerves her. It's not so much because it's London but because she'd grown accustomed to the ebb and flow of the sea in Broachurch. Before long, she's jittering again.

"You awrite?"

Hardy's voice startles her. He sounded very much awake. Propped up on his elbows, he's squinting against the light from the lamp he's just switched on. His hair is messy from the pillow and the bed sheet has slid down his torso, revealing a toned chest and abs straining in the most appealing way.

She's got an itch to scratch.

Without answering, she gets on the bed and crawls towards him until she's straddling his thighs. She runs her hands over his freckled skin, her fingers lingering over a fresh scar, then down his flat stomach. He shivers under her featherlight touch. Their eyes meet.

"Remind me who I am," she whispers.

No explanation is necessary. With his hand holding her jaw like a crystal glass, he brings her mouth to his.

She forgets all about her escort tricks. There's no slow revealing of her body or teasing of his, no naughty banter or role-play. She dives head first. This kiss has very little in common with the ones exchanged earlier. It's raw. Messy and selfish. It's carnal. It wraps around her spine and makes her grind down on his crotch. She bites that lush bottom lip and soothes the swollen flesh with her tongue.

When they part for air, she swiftly removes her tank top and presses his hands to her breasts. Alec freezes.

"It's been a while," he says in a hoarse voice.

"For me too," he quirks an eyebrow and she adds, "I mean for real, with someone I care about."

He peers at her and whatever he's looking for, he seems to find.

He dips his head and leaves a trail of wet kisses along her collarbone and neck while he kneads her breasts with no finesse. He's fumbling, but she couldn't care less; he's touching her where she craves him. Like a domino effect, one touch adds to the other, increasing her arousal. Wetness gathers in her knickers and she feels him twitch against her leg and there are too many layers separating them.

She rolls off him, pushing shorts and underwear down her legs as he does the same. They look at each other and laugh before kissing again. In a split second, she's back on him, and they're naked and panting. His slender fingers slip between her folds, making both of then groan as he rubs through the wetness. She had an inkling he'd be good at this but it's beyond her expectations. Her forehead falls to his collarbone and she bucks her hips against his hand, cursing. When two long digits enter her and the heel of his palm grinds against her clit, she's close to losing it. She holds on to him, nails digging in his shoulder blades. The fire is too great for her to even consider stopping.

"Let go, come for me" and that's her undoing.

The delightful tremors travel up her legs and echo through her core, flooding her body with pleasure.

She feels boneless but the sight of him sucking her juices off his own fingers kindles her lust. She tastes herself on his lips, sugar and spice. Then, she begins her exploration of him with her hands and mouth, tasting every nook and cranny of the body she's longed to discover. The soft skin over his ribs, the swell of his hipbones, the light trail of hair under his navel. When her fingers skim over his cock, his pelvis jolts.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"Don't be, it's flattering," she replies, her hands gently moving up and down his member, "but what happens if I do this?"

With her tongue, she traces a swirly pattern on the underside of his dick, from base to tip.

"Fuck!"

He grabs the pillow in a white-knuckled fist. She smiles smugly and continues her teasing ministrations, caressing with her moist lips and tongue. When she takes him fully in her mouth, he grips her hair. She lets him.

She enjoys his reaction and the smooth hard flesh on her tongue, even the salty taste of him, but her own needs become more pressing. She reaches for protection on the nightstand, almost tearing the latex in her haste. She unrolls it down his cock fluently. And finally — finally — she sinks down on him. She'd forgotten what it's like when it's not a performance, when she can give in and stop thinking. She rides him with a hectic rhythm. There's kissing and groping, and sweaty skin sliding against sweaty skin, and biting and scratching. It's too much too soon.

"You gonna let me do all the work?" she teases him in an effort to not lose herself completely.

And the next second she's on her back, Hardy above her, a determined look in his eyes.

He sits on his heels and with his forearms under her knees, he yanks her closer. He lets her simmer a bit, dropping butterfly kisses along her calves, his cock grazing her slit, back and forth, slowly. She whines in frustration, trying to use her legs as leverage to bring him closer. He bends over her, until his lips are caressing hers but every time she tries to kiss him he backs away, just out of reach. This time her whine sounds desperate. He smirks and that naughty twinkle in his eyes triggers a new surge of arousal. Another side of Hardy. She loves it.

When he enters her, it's in one hard thrust that makes her cry out and hit the headboard. She digs her nails in his arms. He thrusts wildly. In the throes of passion, he's absolutely breathtaking.

She reaches between her legs for added stimulation. The noise of groans and skin slapping skin fills the room. It's nothing short of rutting until he unexpectedly slows down. Chest heaving with exertion, his eyes open and search her face. He touches her cheek. Nose against nose, beads of sweat rolling between their skins, he rests his forehead on hers. She embraces him, holds him close as he continues to move within her, more sensual than sexual. His manhood filling her, his salty skin and musky smell, his teeth nipping at her neck, it inebriates her, makes her soar higher. She bucks her hips in rhythm with his, adjusting her movements to have him hit that spot.

"Please tell me you're close," he says through gritted teeth.

She nods against his shoulder, her body taut, heels digging in his arse. His thumb slips between her folds.

"Oh God!"

She throws her head back, body arching off the bed and into him, as a series of exquisite spasms wrack her body. His own climax follows, his whole body shaking over hers. He buries his nose in her hair and she keeps her legs wrapped around him, luxuriating in the full body contact.

"That was…" he can't seem to find the words but his content sigh tells her everything.

After weeks of self-administered orgasms, it feels like Christmas. Her body is still buzzing with energy and excitement.

"I don't think I'll be able to get back to sleep," she says as he slips back in the bed after disposing of the condom.

"Me neither."

"There's a breakfast restaurant opened all night just down the road."

She had often stopped there on her way back from meeting a client. It suits her schedule and her cravings.

"Sounds good."

She kisses him again — just because she can — then pulls him out of bed by the hand.

"Damn, you're beautiful," he says as he follows her to the bathroom, "but you already know that."

She tucks her chin in her shoulder with a coy smile.

"So? It's nice to hear it from you."

He keeps his lips on her shoulder as she tests the water temperature before stepping inside the glass enclosure. They appreciate the cool shower in this balmy night. It's refreshing, much like the cucumber and lime fragrance of her body wash. They soap each other up lazily, just for the hang of it. She looks down at the tick lather on her chest.

"I think my breasts are clean now."

"Better make sure."

Once they're dry, he goes to the guest bedroom where he left his bag while she ties her hair up in a ponytail. She takes a pair of polka dot shorts and a camisole out of the top drawer and pulls them on without bothering with underwear. She meets Hardy in the corridor, he's more casual than she's ever seen him. His sweatpants cut offs are rather ugly and the Joe Strummer silhouette on his t-shirt is peeling but she likes to see him so relaxed.

They stroll down the residential street, their pinkie fingers locked together. It's so hot, she can already feel perspiration building on the nape of her neck and sliding down her spine. Hardy's floppy fringe sticks and curls on his forehead. The twitching corners of his mouth makes it seem like he's fighting his own smile. She bumps her shoulder with his and the twitching stop, he looks down as if embarrassed by his own happiness.

She loves the sense of freedom in the air. It's like the moon is not that far away after all. Like she might fly just to prove people wrong. She's starting to feel more like her old self. Actually, an improved, wiser, version of her old self. But there's an insidious voice in her head saying she won't be able to keep it up.

"Hey." She turns her attention back to Hardy. "That the place?"

"Yep."

They enter the small, neon-lit restaurant that doubles as a convenience store. They can't even keep their hands off each other long enough to order. She takes his arms behind her and folds them around her waist as they peruse the menu above the cashier. She has a feeling they'll be one of those annoying couples. Not that they're a couple.

"I'll have the custard and strawberry waffle," she says.

"And give me some toasts."

They sit down at a table away from a group of drunk exchange students. The back of her thighs clings to the pink vinyl seat when she slides in beside Alec. He keeps an arm behind her, thumb idly stroking the exposed sliver of flesh between her waistband and vest. The plastic fork grating against the polystyrene plate makes her wince every time so she eats very slowly and carefully. Hardy, on the hand, gobbles up his pancake. As he waits for her to finish, he casts curious glances around the place which is far from what you find in Broadchurch. Every once in a while, she catches him looking at her with this incredulous look on his face.

"What?"

He just shakes his head and smiles.

The cook didn't skimp on strawberries, the juicy fruit slices are piled up high and overflowing around the waffle.

"You always eat this much after sex?" he teases her, "I might have to hold off on you."

Some will say she overreacted. Hannah dips two fingers in custard and splatters it on the tip of his nose. His surprised expression is priceless but short-lived. He immediately retaliates by pushing his nose on hers then across her cheek, smearing the custard. Predictably, the whole mess turns into a sickly-sweet kiss made sloppier by their incapacity to stop laughing. When they eventually calm down, he dips a corner of napkin in his glass of water and wipes the custard off her face.

When was the last time she was this happy and content? She pushes away the dread twisting around her stomach. Maybe this time it won't end in disaster.

"You're really coming back to Broadchurch with me?"

His doubts confound her.

"Of course."

Over London, the sunlight dissolves the inky sky.


End file.
